


Stories Will Be Told

by jennfics



Category: NCIS
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M, TIVA - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-14 21:02:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 14,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3425489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jennfics/pseuds/jennfics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tiva drabbles and ficlets all previously posted on tumblr - mostly for writing exercise, not likely to be expanded. Range from in canon to crack depending on the prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fragile Bird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set some time in S7, post Somalia

The quiet is almost deafening; he starts to hyper focus on what are usually ambient noises – cars rushing past on the street outside his apartment, the low hum of the refrigerator, a tick of the clock on his living room wall. But the clearest sound is the one he isn’t hearing. This time there are no tears, no broken sobs, or muffled catches of breath when he touches her.

Tony sighs deeply into the crook of her neck, his lips grazing along her skin lightly. He feels her shiver against him, and his arms tighten around her in response, waiting. She presses into him, and he runs his fingers slowly along the raised lines of her back and the scars that weren’t there before the summer. She feels fragile, like a bird with hollow bones that protrude from her ribs and constrict against his chest. Tonight isn’t about sex. He only wants her there with him, to hold her and know she’s alive. When she kisses him he can taste copper and sand, the desert clawing the back of his throat. But then she moans into his mouth, and he is grounded into the present.

He whispers her name against her lips, and her fingernails dig into his shoulder blades. He’s thankful for the twinge of pain that tells him he’s alive, too. Because the summer without her was a madness he never wants to know again, and when she asked him to help her heal the scars she couldn’t see, he accepted willingly. After everything, who was he to deny her? So he holds her a little tighter, willing her not to break but ready to love her through it if she does. She is his Ziva, finally home.


	2. Rest My Weary Soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set at some point post-PPF

A cool breeze blows through the open window across from the bed, curtains moving softly. She can hear street traffic, chirping birds, and the comforting familiarity of D.C. in the summertime. Ziva hasn’t slept this well in almost a year; the absence of nightmares and frequent waking is a welcome change.

She stretches her legs, toes pointed, feeling the burn in her calves and delightful ache in her thigh muscles. Her body feels a marathon’s worth of exhaustion, although endorphins from running never left her feeling this high the morning after. Her eyes flutter open as the sun warms her face, but she doesn’t leave the bed just yet. His sheets are soft and smell like him, like them really after last night’s activities.

She sighs contentedly, enjoying this moment of stillness and calm. Taking a deep breath, she can smell coffee brewing; she listens intently as the low croon of Tony’s voice drifts from the kitchen. She can’t make out the tune, but she can feel the joy that echoes from her own heart in his song. Turning her face into the pillow, she smiles; the sudden realization of happiness hits a direct mark to her chest. Her heart feels so full that she starts to tear. A laugh bubbles in her throat as she swipes her fingers over her cheeks, shaking her head in embarrassment as her behavior feels both foreign and oh, so right.

Just then she hears footsteps coming down the hall, and turns in time to see Tony come through the doorway with two steaming mugs in hand. He sets them down on the nightstand, then kneels on the bed; one hand stabilizing himself on a pillow near her head, the other interlocking with her fingers resting on her hip. When he whispers “good morning” against her lips, she can’t help but think: this is it. Something permanent.


	3. Not So Undercovers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set at some point in S10

She’s in control when his mouth slides against hers, hot and sinful. She remains calms under pressure, even as the warm grip of his hand on the small of her back drifts lower. She is a professional, and this is just another op. The comm crackles in her ear when his hand grazes past, pulling her hair to one side and allowing him access to her neck. They are no strangers to undercover work. Despite the heat that radiates from him, drawing her even closer, she still believes she’s in control. His lips work along her neck; but when his teeth nip lightly at her collarbone, she gasps into his ear.

“He told us to sell it,” his words are gruff as he swirls his tongue in the hollow at her throat.

“Yes, I am aware.” She runs her fingers through his hair, scratching slightly at his scalp with her nails.

Her voice is louder, headier than she expects, but he covers quickly by capturing her lips in a rough kiss. When his tongue traces the inside of her upper lip, she moans into his mouth. This is all part of the rouse, after all. As his lips travel from her mouth across her jaw to latch on the sweet spot below her ear, she gives herself another mental check. _This is just an op. She is a professional. She is in control._ Her breath is coming in short pants against his cheek.

His fingertips pull lightly at the hem of her dress, and his hand finds a more possessive grip at her thigh. She had forgotten how enticing her partner can be, and she responds by pressing her whole body against him. Her hand moves down her body to catch his, keeping his hold in place. He smiles into her lips.

“What’s wrong, Ziva?” His fingers push upward against her hand, thumb brushing over her wrist as his hand covers hers.

Words escape her when she feels the cool metal of his pseudo-wedding ring touch her skin. _This is just another op. Nothing more._

“Cat got your tongue?” He purrs seductively, mouth hovering above hers in a decided smirk.

Ziva David is a professional. Problem is, so is Tony DiNozzo. When he takes her bottom lip between his teeth, her hand at the back of his neck digs into his flesh, nails clawing at the short hairs. This is the moment when he decides. _Tonight is not a repeat performance._ He will make sure this time is real.

In a swift move, he turns them and presses her into the wall. Her eyes widen, but she trusts he has a plan so she plays along, moaning loudly and moving a hand from her thigh to his ass, pressing him into her with a firm grip. He buries his face into her shoulder, and what she can’t see is the quick sweep of his fingers as he removes the comm from his ear. When he pulls back, resting his forehead to hers, he manages a slight of hand that would look from the distance like he was only brushing her hair behind her ear. He moves his lips to kiss the furrow from her brow as he tries to mask her confusion. He slips both devices into his suit coat pocket.

“Tonight, we’re on our own,” he mouths into her ear, breath warm against her skin. She only nods minutely, understanding giving way to anticipation in the same moment. They are professionals, no strangers to undercover assignments. But there is little control in their need for the other. And tonight, control will not win out. 


	4. To MTAC or Not to MTAC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set some time post-PPF

“Come on, Ziva.” He’s whining now, trying and failing to keep his cool.

“Tony.” Her tone is a warning, but the small smile on her lips tells him to keep pushing.

“Zee-vah.” The smirk is what gets her in the end, as always. The way his lips wrap around his teeth as they curve upward never fails to send a thrill through her. Even separated by seas and continents, Tony DiNozzo can still manage to conjure dirty thoughts in the mind of Ziva David with only a look.

“I am not entirely comfortable with this.” Now she is the one trying and failing to remain calm; her hand waving dismissively is meant to distract him. But he catches the slight bite of her teeth to her bottom lip: her tell. He’s got her.

“Why not?” His tone is teasing, “It’s just us in here.” He waves both hands cartoonishly, like he’s conducting an imaginary orchestra.

“Yes, I understand that,” she balks. “But, I do not think this falls under the regulation uses for MTAC secure correspondence.” When her arms cross over her chest in defiance, he only smiles wider. The strap of her bra is peaking out past her tank top, all black lace and temptation. He chooses to believe she only wears it on their date nights.

“Oh, really? As I recall, Miss Dah-veed, this was your idea.” He points a finger at the screen as her eyes go wide.

“My idea?!” Her voice has raised on octave, and she shakes her head in jest.

“Yes.”

“How is this my idea, exactly?” Her mouth is pursed to the side, eyebrows furrowed as she squints at him; and for the first time tonight, he can feel the return of that dull ache to his chest. Pushing the feeling aside, he counters.

“You once said, and I quote,” his fingers gesture quotations in the air as he speaks, “once something is online it lasts forever.” She starts to answer, but he’s grumbling under his breath about learning too much from McGee so she laughs instead. “So, I found you the most secure line there is. Tada! MTAC!”

She shakes her head back and forth slowly while she responds, “yes, Tony. But MTAC was not what I had in mind.”

He pouts genuinely. As thankful as he is for their recent increase in communication, he can’t help the want for physical connection. “No dirty skyping then?”

His voice is small and tinged with emotions she wasn’t prepared to deal with tonight. She pauses only for a moment, remembering that it’s almost two a.m. in Washington, and the likelihood they will be interrupted is slim.

“Well, I suppose you deserve something for your misguided efforts.” A sly smile spreads across her face as she slowly pulls down one strap on her tank, revealing herself to his widening eyes.

He recovers quickly, mouth slack-jawed as he clears his throat. “Get closer to the screen, would you? It’s been a long time. I don’t want to miss any of this.”

“You are incorrigible.” Her laughter stirs a warmth in his belly and gives him courage.

“Probably. But you still love me,” he offers, the hitch in his voice letting her know there is a question in his statement.

With his favorite Mona Lisa smile, she replies. “Yes, Tony. I still love you.”


	5. Movie Night (for Delayna)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a request on tumblr: tiva movie night! (established tiva, canon divergent after S10 because what else can we do at this point)

Tony DiNozzo is having an off day, starting from waking up to an empty bed and a note from his partner, something about having to _get an early start_ and _errands_. There was a time, not so long ago in fact, when he didn’t mind an empty morning-after bed or having his apartment to himself.

But when he and Ziva had finally decided to give this _thing_ a real shot, not only did he easily adjust to their shared routines, he was spoiled by them. Mornings with Ziva always started the same; she was the early riser between the two, and most days was on her way home from a run or one of those hot-yoga classes she raved so much about before he was even out of bed. Sometimes he would meet her in the shower or pull her back into bed as she passed toward the bathroom; although when she was feeling particularly playful, she would break into a run as soon as the front door clicked closed, leaving him with only seconds to brace for a flying ninja attack. Sundays were by far his favorite mornings, especially if they weren’t on call and couldn’t be interrupted. She would forgo the training and yoga to initiate a more intimate form of early morning exercise; they’d share their coffee at the kitchen counter, and Tony would make breakfast as she read the paper, saving him the crossword puzzle.

However, this morning’s note and the change to their usual schedule including driving to work separately had him antsy. In fairness, Tony knew today would be a bit of a downer. He was hoping she would remember, but couldn’t hold it against her if she hadn’t. It wasn’t a subject he talked about much, if at all.

So when the line was too long at his usual coffee spot, forcing him to drive through at place closer to the Navy yard, he grumbled mildly. When he took his first sip and burned his tongue on the extremely hot and very cinnamon tasting latte, he swore loudly. When he set down that swill he wouldn’t call coffee on his desk, and then promptly knocked it over as he pulled his backpack off his shoulder, he threw his hands up in resignation. But it wasn’t until he looked around the bullpen and realized he was texted to respond to a scene and not the office, but had driven there out of habit that he seriously considering driving home and calling in sick.

The remainder of the day passed with little fanfare and a surprising lack of head slaps. The case had wrapped quickly, a bar fight gone bad that lead to a dead petty officer and three remorseful fraternity brothers. Gibbs and McGee had left to see through the transfer to Metro, leaving Tony and Ziva to finish the paperwork.

With the last of the reports finished, Tony starting packing up for the evening. Ziva had disappeared at some point, but he had been too engrossed in completing his report and anticipation for calling it day to notice; which is why he yelped when she suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs, calling down for him to join her in MTAC.

“Ziva, come on. Reports are done. McGee and Gibbs have probably been home for hours, which is where I’d like to be so can we hurry it up?” The annoyance in his voice gives her a momentary pause. Several times today she had questioned whether this surprise of hers was a good idea, especially after he finally made it to the crime scene and detailed out the events of his morning. But she knew how important today was to him, and she wanted to give him a good memory to associate with it.

“Settle down, Tony. Come, sit with me.” Her voice was smooth and sweet, and even though he was trying hard to stay annoyed some of the tension was released from his shoulders at the sound.

As he came around to the front row of seats, he found her sitting with two sodas in hand and a bucket of popcorn on her lap. His eyebrows raised, but she only smiled.

“Sit.” She nodded her head to the empty seat at her left. Curious, he obliged and took the soda she offered.

“Ziva?” He tried to ask but was quickly silenced by the pinching of his lips between her finger and thumb. She shook her head, smile still firmly in place before turning to the blank screen and releasing her grip.

He stared at her for a long moment. Then deciding to play along, he faced the screen. A familiar tune came through the speakers, and his throat immediately went dry. As the opening credits rolled, he could feel his eyes start to redden.

Turning to look at her, he found her already staring at him. She reached for his hand then, and he held hers tightly in return.

“The Little Prince?” His voice was barely above a whisper, her thumb rubbing small circles on the back of his hand.

“It is your mother’s birthday, yes? I thought we should do something to honor her memory.” Her smile was so genuine it warmed him to his bones.

“Is this the _errands_ you had this morning?”

“Yes. In fairness, McGee helped with the uh…technical support.”

He could only stare at her. _This woman_ , he thought.

“Is it ok? Perhaps I should have asked first?” Her head cocked to the side with concern, and he realized then he had probably been staring too long.

“No, no. What? This is… it’s…” he shook his head, trying to find the words. Bringing her hand to his lips, he pressed soft kisses to her knuckles. He brought her hand to rest against his cheek, leaning into her touch as he spoke.

“I love you, ya know? And I think, she would have to.” His voice crackled as he tried to make her understand just what this gesture meant to him. She leaned forward then, her lips meeting his in warm, tender kiss.

As she pulled back, he moved his arm to wrap around her shoulders. Settling in with her head against his chest, they turned back to the movie; but not before she angled slightly upward to whisper an _I love you_ of her own into his ear.


	6. Of Playdates and Playmates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be tiva!crack...I blame Jae...it's usually her fault anyway. Love you, lion XO

He’s just finished buckling their sleeping daughter into her carseat when he hears his wife’s throaty chuckle coming from behind. He turns quickly and bumps his head on the car door frame, muttering a series of curses under his breath. Feeling irrationally unsettled by the display in front of him, he leans back into the car and places a soft kiss to their daughter’s forehead. Carefully extracting himself from the back seat and closing the door as softly as possible, he again hears his wife’s laugh and turns just in time to see the man standing on the front step move in to kiss her cheek. She braces herself with one arm on his bicep and smiles as she turns away, heading down the stone path toward the driveway and their car.

“L’hitra’ot, Tony!” the man calls from the doorway.

“Yeah, yup. Two weeks. Later, man,” he calls back, unscrewing his smile as he shuts the car door.

His wife settles into the passenger seat, smiling as she pulls her seatbelt across her lap. He pulls the car in reverse, backing out of the driveway and heads down the street without looking her way.

“I still do not understand this, Tony. I would think by now the point is mute,” she says with a sigh, giving him a sideways glace.

“Moot. The point is moot. And yes, I know. But still.” He knows he’s being an ass. He’s tried to get over it, but watching Adam kiss her cheek or make her laugh still turns him into a green-eyed monster even all these years later.

“Our children play together.”

“I know.”

“He’s married.”

“I know.”

“To a man.” Her tone is mocking as she raises a hand to pat his cheek. “So, I see no reason for your concern.”

“I’m not concerned Zee-vah,” he rolls his eyes and pulls his cheek away from her hand defiantly. “I’m just –“

“Jealous?” She offers gamely, her lips pursed in amused satisfaction.

“Possibly.”

“Huh,” she clicks her tongue as she turns back in her seat, leaving him to pout.


	7. The Pondscum Incident (for Jae)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set at some point is S11 if PPF never happened

Some crime scenes are particularly grisly, when hard days turn into long nights. There are others that wrap up quickly, when it’s easier to push aside the trauma and focus on the solution. And then there are days like today that start with an order to collect evidence from a riverbed and end with three soaking wet federal agents.

The car ride back to the navy yard is unpleasant for several reasons, mostly the smell of slowly drying, quickly warming pond scum; but also the fever pitch of three angry voices bickering loudly as to who was to blame exactly for their impromptu swim. The arguing continued in the parking lot, the elevator, and quieted only after the delivery of three identical head slaps.

McGee chose to change into sweats in the men’s room then drove home to clean up, but Ziva had stormed off immediately for the showers, a low grumble of what were surely insults disguised in Hebrew under her breath. Never one to miss an opportunity to thoroughly annoy his partner, Tony decided a shower sounded like exactly what he needed.

Replaying the day’s events in his mind on the elevator ride down to the locker room, he created a plan of attack. But as he pushed open the door for the women’s showers, whatever words he’d hope to say died on his lips. His partner stood directly in front of him, back turned as she undressed. His eyes travelled from the wisps of hair sticking to her neck, over her shoulder blades, and down the length of her spine, resting finally on the twin dimples just above the curve of her ass; of the many spots on her body that he claimed as a favorite, this one was a definite front runner.

She knew he’d follow her to the showers. He was predictable in that way. When she heard the door push open, she didn’t bother to turn around. No one other than her partner would dare enter the women’s showers after a wet, pungent, and angry Ziva. Not even Gibbs had that audacity or stupidity. She was used to having his eyes on her, and was frankly more concerned with getting clean than what she assumed was his reason for following her, to continue their childish argument.

But as it occasionally happens, he surprised her.

A single fingertip ran the length of her spine, her skin reacting under his touch, and her back arching involuntarily. Struggling to take a deep breath, she tried to clear her thoughts and calm her heartbeat as it started to pick up. When the back of his hand brushed lightly over her hipbone, she breathed out in a huff.

“Tony.” She hadn’t intended the rasp in her voice, but he had moved significantly closer as she could feel the heat of his body along the length of hers. Clutching her shirt tightly to her chest as she glanced quickly at her already discarded bra, several naughty thoughts whirled in her mind before the voice of reason won out. _You are at work still, Ziva. This is very inappropriate and unprofessional. Stop. Now._

Clearing her throat, she said his name again. Not easily deterred, he dropped a quick kiss to her shoulder before whispering her name, lips lightly brushing along the shell of her ear.

“Can I join you?” His voice was smooth as honey, tempting her to dip in a finger and taste its sweetness. She couldn’t help but indulge for a moment, leaning back into his embrace as one hand lightly caressed her arm, and the other encircled her waist, holding her close.

His moved along her neck, and he smiled onto her skin when he realized that not even the odor of mud and stale water could repel him from one half-naked Ziva David. Her fingers found his at her waist and lightly traced the back of his hand, interchanging the soft pads of her fingertips for the tickling scratch of her nails. Now it was his turn to shiver.

“Tony.” Breaking their spell now felt wrong, but she knew he would not be able to pull away first. Wanting to save both their jobs, she tried his name again.

“Ziva.” In all the ways Tony DiNozzo had said her name over the years, this is the one that stirs a warmth down to her bones. This is the _Ziva_ she hears when she thrashes awake from a nightmare as strong, familiar hands reach for her in the darkness. This is the _Ziva_ that sounds like a prayer, like she is the answer to every crisis of faith. This is the _Ziva_ of Sunday morning coffee and crossword puzzles, of ticket lines for opening night blockbusters, of restaurants with expensive wine lists, of late nights in the bullpen after McGee has fallen asleep at his keyboard and Gibbs has disappeared to the morgue. This is the _Ziva_ that precipitates the three little words she had always struggled to say until she was cared for by a man who finally deserved them.

“We are at work, Tony.” Her tone manages the warning she was aiming for, and his arm tightens around her waist momentarily.

“I know,” he rests his chin on her shoulder. She can’t help but smile at the gesture.

“We are not at home where joining me in the shower is both welcome and preferable.” Her body reverberates with the force of his laughter. Swiping a kiss to her cheek, he pulls away from her. She bites down on her bottom lip, immediately missing the comfort of his hold. His hand grazes along the small of her back briefly before he turns and heads toward the door.

He stops short, gripping the handle when again he says her name. She turns just slightly, eyes locking with his over her shoulder. What passes between them in that moment is a tender and careful understanding.

_It is not that I don’t want you…_

_If we weren’t at work…_

_I always want you…_

_I love you…_

“I know,” she replies, a small smile tugging the corners of her mouth. He grins widely in return and pulls the door, disappearing on the other side.

She stands there for several seconds, shirt still clutched to her chest, smiling.


	8. The Waiting Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Established tiva, future!fic, can be read in canon but let's just say out of canon because canon sucks and I think canon should jump off a cliff

The wooden panels of the screen door slam together with a slight bounce but she doesn’t flinch, too lost in thought. He treads carefully as he watches her from behind, back hunched but perfectly still. She’s been out here for at least fifteen minutes, sitting on the front steps with her elbows resting on her knees. Yet he can feel the tension radiating off her. When he casually sits down next to her, he chances a quick glance to her face. The sheer exasperation is written in the furrow of her brow, tightness of her jaw, and the hard set of her mouth. Her hands are clasped in front of her, fingers of her right are idly picking at the cuticles of her left.

He doesn’t say anything at first. She’s staring straight ahead, but he knows better than to rush her. Ziva has always been her own timekeeper. What he needs her to know is that he’s got her back, like always.

She sighs heavily, trying and failing to calm herself. He watches her chest rise and fall as she takes slow, deep breaths. Sometimes, it’s just easier to be angry.

He waits. He’s good at waiting when it comes to her.

In a gesture of solidarity, he reaches out his index finger and lightly touches it to her elbow. A gentle reminder that they’re in this together. She sighs again, deeply this time, with a slight tremor as she breathes out. It doesn’t surprise him when she turns to face him, arms coming up to wrap around his neck. He bands one arm around her waist, pulling her in close. His other hand travels over her back, fingers combing tenderly through her loose curls. As she presses her face into his neck, he can feel wetness start to pool at his collarbone.

“She’s driving me insane,” she mutters, emotion thickening her voice.

“She’s twelve, Ziva. It’s her job.”

“Well, then she needs to be less thorough.” He can’t suppress the chuckle at her words, but stops short as she lets out a lone sob into his shoulder.

“Hey, hey,” he hushes her quietly, the arm around her waist tightening. “It’s alright,” he murmurs into her hair, pressing soft kisses to her temple and cheek.

There was a time when comforting her like this would have been out of the question; but somewhere between crime scenes and bullet holes, playdates and first days of school, their partnership solidified. Gone were the days of hesitation and questioning, of unsaid words and stifled emotions. Their marriage was almost fifteen years strong, and what they had discovered was that building a life together turned out to be much easier than either of them had thought.

“What’s this really about?” His voice is calm and even, a judgment free tone.

“Do you think she hates me?” barely a whisper, but it shocks him enough to pull back from her.

“Of course not.” He brings his hand forward to cup her cheek, and she leans into his touch, eyes fluttering shut. “Again, she’s twelve. She’s supposed to be a pain in the neck.”

Several beats pass before her eyes open, and she pulls away back to her original position but taking one of his hands in hers. “When I was twelve I was running combat drills.”

“Of course you were,” he nods with a trace of teasing in his voice. “But she’s taking advantage of the life we said we wanted for her. You know, that whole ‘I’m just a normal kid whose parents happen to be federal agents and mommy might be a former assassin with expert ninja skills’ thing.”

Seeing the corners of her mouth turn up slightly, he bumps his shoulder into hers. She bumps back.

“I know. She just hurts my feelings sometimes.” He doesn’t like being angry at his daughter, but it still riles him up to watch his wife cry regardless of the source of her tears.

“I should probably go back in,” she states resolutely.

“Yeah, you probably should.”

She stands, giving a slight tug to the hand she’s still holding as she looks down at him. “Are you coming?”

“Nah,” he shakes his head lightly. “I think you’ve got it covered. And if not –“

“If not, she can sleep in the yard.” He knows she’s kidding. Still, he raises an eyebrow. But she dismisses him with a quick shrug.

Releasing her hand with a slow kiss to her knuckles, he smiles then shoos her forward. She makes it halfway across the porch, before she turns and doubles back.

Squatting behind him, she wraps her arms around his neck and plants a smacking wet kiss to his cheek. Feeling his laughter reverberate through her chest, she can’t help but smile. As she pulls away, she whispers in his ear.

“You’re a good husband, Tony DiNozzo.” She doesn’t miss his slight shiver as her lips brush against his skin.

Before he has a chance to reply, she’s up and crossing the porch. He hears the screen door slam again, right before her voice echoes through the house, rousing their daughter.

Twisting the gold band on his ring finger idly, he smiles to himself as he waits.


	9. The Kitchen Concept

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the writeworld prompt: "Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Established tiva, future!fic, if PPF never existed...

“I almost pissed myself when she called him Uncle Probie last weekend,” he says with a look of pride until a punch lands squarely on his bicep. “What?”

“Tony. I thought we discussed the nicknames and what our daughter will and will not call people.” She’s shaking her head, but he knows she’s just as amused.

“It’s fine, Ziva. Tim was too stunned to say anything, and I distracted the kids with a Disney movie before any of them could ask too many questions.” They had spent the better part of an hour in their kitchen; Ziva perched on the counter next to the sink. Tony washed the dishes while she dried. Handing her another plate, she gave him a look that said _you’re avoiding._

“What do you want me to say, Ziva? I don’t think he’s ready? I think he should stay in D.C. where all of his family are? And Delilah’s doctors? And the kids school? Fine, I’ll say all of those things.”

Gibbs had been retired almost three years, and Tony had lead the team since then. McGee was his senior field agent; seasoned and capable, and unfortunately for Tony, newly promoted.

“At least he will still be stateside. They could have sent him overseas. Ankara, Rabat, Cape Town…” he puts up a hand to stop her before she recites every NCIS field office locale.

“And what about me, Ziva? Huh? Now I’ll be looking for a new Senior Field Agent, and we’re still breaking in the last probie.” He clamps an exasperated hand on the rim of the sink, then moves to turn off the water. He faces her in all seriousness, “Look. I lost you to that whole ‘can’t supervise your wife thing,’ so there’s one of my best gone. Then they pull Bishop back to NSA, which isn’t the worst thing but I did put some work into her and for what? And now they want McGee? No, Ziva. No.” He’s gesticulating wildly now, and gives emphasis on the final _no_.

She waits him out in only the way that she can. Taking a deep breath, he drops a hand to grip her thigh, and she instinctively closes her fingers around his.

“Tony, I know you will miss McGee. He is your best friend – “

He cuts her off quickly, “You’re my best friend.”

“And you are mine,” she replies but doesn’t miss a beat, “you’re best _man_ friend then.” He scoffs, but doesn’t correct her. “It’s time for Tim to move on.”

“Ziva, do you know how many close calls we’ve had over the years? Who’s going to watch his six in Sand Diego?” His petulant tone is rubbing her the wrong way, but she tries to bite back her annoyance. He needs her support, even if he’s making it almost impossible.

“Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, Tony.”

He turns to her with an affronted expression. “You must miss Gibbs because I could swear his voice just projected out of your mouth.”

“I am wrong?” She does her best ninja glare, but he can only roll his eyes. Fifteen years of partnership and five years of marriage and she has yet to make a serious attempt on his life, paperclip, credit card, or otherwise.

“Do you even know how to play horseshoes?”

“Of course not,” she replies with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I do, however, have an intimate knowledge of hand grenades.” He can’t help but snort at her matter-of-fact delivery.

“Tony.” She places a hand on his shoulder and waits, one finger tapping out a gentle rhythm. A long moment passes before he turns to her, square-jawed and tight lipped, but his eyes betray him.

“I know you will miss McGee, as will I.” Her fingers trail slowly from his shoulder to the joining of his neck then upward, until she is lightly caressing his jawline with the back of one finger. “I had hoped, maybe selfishly, that our children would all grow up together. You know how much Norah adores her Uncle Tim.” He turns his head to kiss her finger, as she moves slowly to palm his cheek.

“He’s just a kid, Ziva,” concern for his friend clouding his professional judgment, she hardens her gaze minutely.

“He is not a child, Tony.” With a firm but caring voice, she continues, “In fact, he is a father of two. Perhaps more importantly for this purpose, he is a very fine agent who had exceptional training.”

Releasing a heavy sigh, he nods against her hand before pulling away to stare out the kitchen window. “I know. He had the fortune of learning from one Leroy Jethro Gibbs.” Tony puffs his chest in mock importance. “I know he’s a good agent, Ziva. It doesn’t mean I want him to leave.”

He turns back to her then, her knee resting against his hip as he leans toward her. Knowing what she is going to say but needing to her it all the same, he laces the fingers of one hand with hers.

“Tim was your probie, Tony. You are the one who trained him. He is a good agent on his own merit, but he would not have been successful without you. He would not have been offered a team of his own if he were not first shown what it is to be a leader.” Focusing on their joined hands as she speaks, he runs his thumb along the back of her palm in slow circles. He takes a deep breath in through his nose before raising his head again in an attempt to clear the weighted feelings currently threatening to besiege him.

“I love you,” he says earnestly, his eyes finally meeting hers. She holds his gaze for only a moment before leaning forward and pressing a quick kiss to the tip of his nose.

“As you should, _motek_ ,” she replies with a scrunch of her nose and a satisfied smile. Chuckling, he shakes his head several times. She really is something.

A loud thud accompanied by a crash, several barks, and what sounds distinctly like breaking glass echoes from the upstairs. They turn to each other in unison, “She’s up.”

Ziva hangs her head in joking defeat as she hops off the counter. “I will go see what predicament our daughter and from the sound of it, also our dog, have gotten themselves into.” Reaching up, she presses a warm kiss to his jawline, just below his ear. When she pulls back, he can still feel her lips on his skin. “I love you, too,” she whispers, the hand resting on his shoulder traveling down his back where she swiftly places a soft swat to his backside.

“Now finish those dishes!” She calls out, exiting the kitchen and crossing the living room. He can’t help the smile or the wince, as she reaches the top of the stairs and he hears her yell, “Norah Mae DiNozzo do I even want to know what is going on here?”

_Sometimes, change is a good thing_ , he tell himself with a laugh, as he turns back to finish the dishes.


	10. Rewritten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How S11 should have started...

He’s been awake for almost a half hour, twirling a curl of her hair between his finger and thumb. Back and forth in a lazy pattern, torn between wanting to wake her and enjoying watching her sleep. Warmth radiates from her as does a slight scent of lavender, heady and rich. Deciding that getting lost in her is the perfect way to spend a Saturday, he gently inches closer.

 

Rubbing his nose lightly over her shoulder blade before his lips connect with skin, he breathes in deep. A summer’s worth of lazy mornings, hushed words and quiet laughter. _This will never get old._

She stirs after a few moments, dropping her shoulder as she rolls her hips back until their bodies connect. Snaking one arm around her waist, his hand fans out low across her belly and pulls her flush against him. Their legs tangle, and he smirks into her hair when her cold toes dig into his calf. She settles into his embrace when his other arm wraps around her chest, his hand crossing to her shoulder. Dropping his mouth to her neck, he alternates kisses, light nips, and gentle suckling as he works a path to the sweet spot behind her ear.

She smiles, eyes still closed not yet ready to break this spell. There was a time not long ago where being held by a man felt more like a trap. Mornings where she resisted, scrambling away from her suitor with an excuse of needing the bathroom or starting the coffee. Nights too, when the caress of a hand felt possessive and foreign or too close to blood and sand and the feel of nightmares. But not these arms, never these hands. This is the embrace of the man who deserves her.

Her hand reaches back, wandering the length of his body. Groaning quietly against her skin, his fingers flex over her stomach before his hand starts to travel lower. He can’t see the mischievous smile playing across her face when his fingertips brush the top of her thigh.

A loud yelp rings out through the quiet, followed by her cackling laughter.

“Jesus, Ziva! Do you have to pinch so hard? My ass is not a toy.” He turns to her with an indignant look, but isn’t able to hold his frown. She has an arm laying across her face, entire body shaking with laughter.

He moves in close, his lips against her ear when he whispers, “you’re going to pay for that, David.” She is unprepared for the quick work his fingers make of her most ticklish spots. He has her squirming and gasping for air between fits of giggles when the thought crosses her mind of how well he’s learned body, but gives way to her competitive edge.

With a rough push and kick of her leg, she manages to pin him beneath her. Her hands rest on the meat of his shoulders, as she hovers over him. Sandwiched between her legs and panting with laughter, he feels a sharp pang to his chest. _This will never get old._

He reaches up a hand to brush the mess of curls from her face, the other finding the curve of her hip. The weight of this moment is heavy between them; the flush on her face, how he cups her cheek, easy smiles, and the loudest of looks.

She takes a deep breath. Her hands slide from his shoulders to either side of his neck then move to frame his face, fingertips scratching lightly in his beard. The grip he has on her hip tightens, and he swallows hard.

“Tony.” She blinks once with clouded eyes. He can feel her words before she says them. “I love you.”

Furrowing his brow, he pulls her closer. She falls forward, resting her forearms on his chest but her gaze never leaves his. The hand on her hip travels over her back until his arm is wrapped around her. She bumps her nose with his, all Mona Lisa smile and watery eyes.

“I love you, Ziva.” His voice is thick, crackling as he breathes out her name. Her kiss is gentle, an affirmation.

Several hours will pass before their apartment is riddled with bullet holes, when they will return to the Navy yard and demand their badges, explain to their boss the change in their relationship status. _Partners_ , he’ll say, _and we’re staying that way_.


	11. Made in America

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4th of July between S11 and S12...the way it should have happened

“Tony.” The rasp in her voice has him smirking as he nips gently at her collarbone. Her nails dig into the bicep of one arm, as her other hand tries and fails to fist into his much shorter than usual hair. He has her trapped between his body and the bathroom sink, the porcelain causing an uncomfortable ache in her back.

When she wraps one leg around his waist, he helps her the rest of the way as both of his hands find firm grips on her thighs and hoist her upward, planting her ass on the rim. There is only a moment’s pause before she has him in a grip between her thighs, using her ankles for leverage to force him closer. He, however, has the vantage point. His fingers trail across thigh, pushing higher the already short hem of her jean cutoffs. Even though her mind is telling her to _slow down, not now, not here_ ; her body is on fire. Lately, she hasn’t been able to get enough of him – in the shower, on the couch watching a movie, before work, after work, and one almost problematic incident in the office men’s room. Not that he’s complaining, and neither is she for that matter. But the upstairs bathroom in the home of one Leroy Jethro Gibbs during a Fourth of July barbecue attended by all their friends and family is not exactly an ideal make-out location.

Trailing his lips from her collarbone to chin, he leaves wet kisses in his wake. She sighs against his mouth when he finally finds his way back to hers. Her tongue slowly traces the inside of his bottom lip, and he practically whimpers. A huff of laughter escapes her as she drags her hand from the back of his neck to fist in his shirt, holding him to her. Not one to idle, he palms her thigh with one hand, fingers massaging her taught muscles. He uses his other hand on the small of her back, arching her forward and lifting her shirt in one fluid motion.

Pulling back from her mouth, he bumps his nose with her chin urging her to give him access to the column of her neck. Every touch, every kiss, every point of contact feels electric. She darts out a hand to steady herself against the sink, knocking the soap dish into the basin with a loud clatter neither of them notice. Slowly working his way down, he makes a mental note of his fondness for v-neck shirts; particularly like the one she’s currently wearing that gives him easy access to the swell of her breasts. A low of hum of appreciation escapes her at the same point her free hand finds the back of his head, gentle pressure letting him know he’s hit the right spot.

When his fingertips drag low across her belly, she sighs softly. His hand splays out unconsciously, and she leans forward to press a kiss to the top of his head. The heat between them suffocates slowly, leaving a warmth that feels so natural tears begin to prick her eyes. She blinks quickly, regaining her composure just as he pulls himself up to rest his forehead against hers.

“I want to tell them,” he says before placing a gentle, sweet kiss to her lips. Both his arms are around her waist, holding her tightly. Her hands cradle his face, thumbs brushing across his cheeks as she speaks.

“I know. So do I. But,” she pauses, “not yet.”

“How much longer?” She brushes her fingertips lightly over his temples, and he briefly closes his eyes.

“Soon. I just need to be sure it’s…” He doesn’t let her finish.

“Ok. Yeah, I know. Me, too. I’m just…I’m…” He shrugs his shoulders and she can only smile, knowingly.

“I am excited too, my love. And I want nothing more than to tell the whole world, or at least our little corner of it that we are having a baby.” His eyes light up at her acknowledgement, and she brushes her lips against his lightly.

“The doctor just confirmed for us last week. I, well, you know I was concerned this may not happen for us.” His grip on her waist tightens as she speaks.

“I think I will feel better when we pass the first trimester. Not saying we need to wait that long, of course. We will need to tell Gibbs at least before then.” He is strong in every way that counts, but in this moment she is most grateful for his tender understanding.

He leans in then to kiss her, and she wraps her arms around his neck pulling him in close. She indulges him for several moments, before finally pulling back with quick pecks to the corner of his mouth and cheek.

“I love you, Ziva.”

“Good,” she replies playfully, dropping a kiss to the tip of his nose. His laughter reverberates through her. She feels lighter and somehow fuller than she has in years, maybe ever.

“We should probably head back downstairs before they send up a search party.” He rolls his eyes while stepping out of their embrace, and she jumps down from the sink with ease.

He entwines their fingers as he heads for the door, reaching for the handle when she stops, pulling him back gently. Her head is cocked to one side, as she studies her reflection in the mirror.

“How do you think I would look with short hair?”

“Hot.”

She snorts subtly, turning in his direction. “Is that your honest opinion?”

“Yes,” he replies, nodding vigorously.

“I did not realize you were in to women with short hair, Tony,” she says with a laugh, amused smile turning up the corners of her mouth.

“I am into _you_ , Ziva. Short hair, long hair, no hair. Whatever.” He tugs her hand, urging her along. When they exit the bathroom, she grabs his forearm with her free hand and rests her cheek gently against his shoulder.

He leans sideways to plant a kiss to her forehead. “Good because I have an appointment next week.”

“Of course you do” is all he can reply.


	12. All We Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quoted lyrics are from Matt Nathanson's song of the same title; set post-PPF

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Katherine's favorite so I like to think of it as her fic

_**I kept falling over** _

 

She awakens abruptly, snagging one hand through her hair and pulling the sweaty locks away from her neck in a swift, twirling motion; the other throws the covers off in one quick move, as her legs kick out to ground her feet on the floor. Sitting up now on the edge of the bed, she takes a deep breath. Her tank top clings to her back, and her heads pounds to a disorienting beat. Releasing her hair, her hands clutch at the mattress as she stretches out her toes and tightens her calf muscles. When the pounding subsides, she takes a few tentative steps toward the bathroom.

 

_**I kept looking backward** _

 

Hitting the switch, the light buzzes overhead: sterile, clinical, all seeing. The shadows outline her features tonight, dark circles beneath her eyes. She can see the passage of time on her face. Turning on the cool water and bending slightly over the sink, she splashes her face several times. Some nights just end up like this. She spends a few moments studying her reflection. Rivulets of water drip from her nose and chin.

 

_**I went broke believing that the simple should be hard** _

 

Motel towels are rough and thin, but she’s grown accustomed to the lack of luxury. She strips her tank as she leaves the bathroom. The alarm clock on the bedside dresser reads an obnoxious 4:15AM, but she decides to dress instead of returning to bed. Sleep won’t come now regardless.

 

_**And in the end the words won’t matter** _

 

There’s a quiet stillness to early mornings she’s always favored. Stepping out the door to her room, she takes a deep breath of fresh mountain air. Two weeks of exploration and she’s yet to tire of the lingering scent of damp leaves. The Badlands are a far cry from the rest of her journey. She left Israel almost a year ago, first for Egypt and the hot Arabian days that bled together; then for Jakarta, London, Rio, and a brief stay in Romania. What had started as a quest for healing in the end felt more like running. She was in transit.

 

_**'Cause in the end nothing stays the same** _

 

After several months of radio silence, she sent him a letter.

 

_I’m lost._

 

He mailed her back a map.

 

_Get found._

 

There were eight stars in total, each with tiny writing of the wheres, whys, and hows to begin her adventure. The Badlands were her own addition, a suggestion from a fellow traveler who rode in the seat next to her on the bus from Charleston to St. Louis.

 

_**And in the end dreams just scatter and fall like rain** _

 

She spends her last afternoon hiking, heading toward a mountain lake she heard a few locals talking over at the diner across the street from her motel. She hears the water gently lapping the shore before it comes into view. When she reaches the top of a hill, she stops to drink in the expanse of mountain-lined blue in front of her.

 

_**I wasted, wasted love for you** _

 

Almost an hour passes before she’s made her way to the water’s edge. The terrain is more challenging than she first thought, but worth her efforts. In a split second decision, she pulls off her boots then rolls up the fabric of her pants to her calves. She wades into the water until her ankles are covered, toes slipping over smooth rock and sinking into the silt.

 

_**Trading out for something new** _

 

The water is frigid, and the cold creeps into her bones. She stands there for only a few moments before returning to the shoreline. Sitting on the ground beside her discarded boots, she pulls her knees in up to her chest. The still of this place feels like sorrow.

 

_**Well, it’s hard to change the way you lose** _

 

In her native tongue, she whispers a quiet prayer. This is where she will leave her grief.

 

Here she leaves Ari, with the smell of steel, sawdust and bourbon. The elimination of a terrorist; the murder of her brother.

 

Here she leaves her father’s betrayal, and the sting of missed opportunities for him to make amends.

 

Here she leaves the guilt of Tali, the one she couldn’t save.

 

Here she leaves the burden of being a motherless child.

 

Here she leaves Somalia.

 

_**If you think you’ve never won** _

 

Cold water to cleanse her wounds, pull from her body the festering anger and sadness. She cries until her head aches, rocking herself gently as she releases years of hurt. The sun is lower in the sky when she finally stands.

 

She closes her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath in. She feels the strength of her spine, the sturdy muscles of her thighs. The weight left behind allows room to carry what pieces are left; a collection of memories, shattered and broken but still worthy.  Her brother, the sweet boy she knew in their youth. Her father, a man of flaws and conviction. Her sister, a light in the darkness. Her mother, the strength to persevere.

 

_**'Cause all we are we are** _

 

Hours later, she once again loads her backpack onto the luggage rack above her seat. She pulls the map from the front flap of her bag before settling in. There are three markers left. As the bus drives out of the terminal, she sends a text.

 

_**And every day is a start of something beautiful, something real** _

 

His phone vibrates loudly against the wooden floor where it fell from his pocket. He had been too tired tonight to do little more than remove his pants and dress shirt before climbing into bed. Silently cursing his boss, the Navy, and whatever crime scene he’s undoubtedly being summoned to, he reaches down for the device. He glances at the screen, brows furrowed in confusion until he sees the ID. Rolling onto his back, he slides his finger across to open the message.

 

A photo of a fold-worn map and a single word.

 

_Soon._

 

He smiles.


	13. A New Kind of Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the writeworld prompt: "I am not helpless."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in the same AU as The Kitchen Concept...you don't need to have read that drabble to enjoy this one, but they are related

There are few things that scare Special Agent Tony DiNozzo. Gun on his hip, badge a talisman, swagger to his step, and bravado stretching out ten paces in front of him; he is the law. Terrorists, assassins, or murderous drug lords be damned. He doesn’t fear the dark, the blackness of night or the gnawing chill of longing. The blistering desert heat burned those particular scars long ago, leaving only marred, hardened tissue in their wake. In fairness, Tony DiNozzo has faced the reaper more times than are worth count. Maybe it’s luck or grace or sheer stupidity, but he’s always come out on top.

What Tony DiNozzo fears is the buzzing of his phone,

“There’s been an incident…”

the slow beep of a heart monitor,

the smell of disinfectant,

the bright, sterilizing glare of fluorescent lighting.

The bullet that imbeds deep in her chest

that misses her lung by a tenth of a centimeter.

\----------------

Placing her mug on the table, Ziva DiNozzo takes a series of slow breaths. She counts,

in one, two, three, four

hold one, two

out one, two, three, four.

Recovery is a slower and more frustrating a process than she had anticipated. This is her first morning outside since the shooting. Two weeks in the hospital, another three confined to bed. First it was doctors, nurses, hospital staff; then a visiting nurse and a seemingly endless stream of friends and colleagues hovering over her in the various stages of healing. There has been little time for contemplation or reflection, and even less for what she knows is a necessary conversation with her tightly wound husband.

She closes her eyes briefly, grateful for the quiet rustle of leaves and soft chirping of the sparrows nesting in the tree at the edge of their patio. When the door creaks open, she takes another deep breath. The corners of her mouth turn up. _How does he always know?_

She listens to his foot falls, finding familiar comfort in the sound of his steps. The metal scraping against the slate grounds her back to the moment, and her eyes flutter open with another heavy intake of breath.

The smile he gives her as he sits down warms her to the bone. She reaches for his hand, and he leans forward not wanting to make her stretch. Their fingers entwine and find purchase on the arm of her chair.

“I would have gotten your tea,” his voice is kind, but a hint of anxiety worries the edge of his words.

“I am not helpless.” She gives his hand a gentle squeeze, rubbing her thumb in slow, concentric circles along the inside of his wrist.

“I know you aren’t, Ziva.” Scrubbing his opposite hand over his face, he rests an elbow on his knee. He holds his head in his hand, covering his eyes for a long moment.

Not being able to help the crease in her brow as her eyes narrow, she tugs on his hand once.

“Hey,” she prompts him gently, voice barely a whisper.

He breathes out in a huff before lifting his head. The hollowness behind his eyes is visible, and it gives her a start.

“I can’t do this again.” A strangled noise escapes from the back of his throat, as he hangs his head in admonishment. “I promised never to ask you, Ziva. But,” he pauses for a moment, fingers flexing against her grip. “I’m asking.”

The tightening in her chest has nothing to do with her wound.

“You know my answer.” Resolve and steel coat her reply. When his head snaps up, his gaze meets hers, hard and impassive.

He says nothing, eyes flicking over her.

The honey-tipped curls tied loosely atop her head,

the inch of caramel skin below her clavicle not covered by her nightgown.

The softness of her belly he knows exists, more prominent since their daughter was born.

The smooth expanse of her leg,

the sensitive spot on the arch of her foot he grabs for first when he tries to tickle her out of a bad mood.

He settles on the raised outline of beveled flesh, a mark of irritation from weeks’ worth of sterile adhesive and bandages that peeks out from her collar. The image of her pale and still lying in a hospital bed, tubes and wires and that constant beeping clouding his mind. His words are less controlled than he would have liked.

“Because it’s different now.”

“How exactly?” Her reply has him up from his chair, pulling his hand from hers roughly.

“What do you mean, _how_ , Ziva?” Registering the incredulous look he gives her, she simply shakes her head dismissively.

Gripping the chair with both hands, he lifts then slams it down hard. The table rattles as the arms knock into the frame, and her tea sloshes over the mug’s rim. White knuckling the top of the chair, he tries to get himself under control. She waits.

He leans back on his heels, bending at the waist then straightening.

She doesn’t say a word until he pulls the chair out slowly and returns to his seat, elbows balancing on his knees. Folding her hands together in her lap, she takes another deep breath, counts

in one, two, three, four

hold one, two

out one, two, three, four.

“Tony.” Even when she infuriates him, her bull-headed stubbornness laying waste to his logic, he can’t help the admiration he has for her. Calm and steady, she calls him home.

“It’s different,” he pauses, “because now we have her.” She nods minutely in acknowledgement. “I was the one to tell her you were hurt, Ziva. I’ve –“ The catch in his voice causes her throat to go dry “I’ve never been so scared in my life. Watching her eyes dim, knowing she thought she’d lose you. It was just,” he doesn’t continue, only shakes his head back and forth.

Letting her eyes close, she feels the weight of her little girl’s terror. When she opens them again, fresh tears fall, but she wipes them quickly with her fingertips.

“We made the decision when she was born, Tony. We would _both_ continue as agents.” Resting his chin on his hand, he leans closer to her, and she reaches a hand out to thread her fingers through his hair. “I cannot imagine how difficult this has been for you.” She scratches his scalp lightly, and his eyes close. “But,” she gives a slight tug, forcing him to meet her gaze. “I would have been in the same position had you been the one with a hole in your chest.”

Her words are raw, and he shrinks at the gruesome frankness. But she continues, “and I do not believe there is room in our lives for this back and forth. We will both continue with our jobs until we decide otherwise, for reasons that will not include fear. I vowed years ago Tony to not let myself be ruled by that which I cannot control.”

He nods slowly, but she knows him better than that. Her hand moves to cup his cheek, and she gives him a hard look.

“And you will stop now.” He tries to act his way through her accusation, but she silences him with a look. “You will stop blaming yourself. We are no longer on the same team, haven’t been for some time. What happened was not because you were not there to watch my six.”

“Ziva, I just…” She tightens her grip on his chin.

“No.” Her voice is firm, “no, Tony. You will not do this.”

He brings his hand up to cover hers, leaning into her palm.

“Ok,” he whispers roughly. “Yeah, ok.” Pulling her hand from his cheek, he threads their fingers together.

“And I will be fine,” she says resolutely. “I promise.”

If he doubts her, he never lets on; simply drags his lips across her knuckles and smiles into her skin.


	14. Norah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kid!fic, established tiva...every future fic I've written (with the exception of the Holiday Collab) is loosely based on this drabble...

The sun was setting on another crisp night in D.C. as they strolled through their neighborhood, hands clasped lightly between them. The streets were quiet, as the start of school the previous week had children turning in early. The cooler weather meant less time spent on front stoops, windows once pulled wide were now only slightly ajar. The remnants of summer were fading around them.

In her right hand, she held the first sonogram of their child. They had left the doctor’s office earlier that day, and his mouth quirked upward as he looked down at the photo she clutched tightly. Almost a half hour had passed before he realized she had brought it with them, and as he thought back over the afternoon he couldn’t remember her putting it down once.

“So, have you thought about names?” He gave her a sideways glance, keeping his tone playful.

She turned her head in his direction, a small smile on her lips. So she had thought of names. He grinned widely, waiting for her.

“A few,” she replied, as a blush crept over her cheeks.

Three days earlier, he was getting dressed for work when she yelled to him from the bathroom. He slid across their bedroom floor in his socks, moving as quickly as possible toward her. She met him in the doorway, her face a mix of shock and panic. They stood together stunned, looking down at the stick and its tiny pink plus sign. What had felt surreal for an average Monday morning was now official on a Thursday evening, backed by medical science and photographic evidence.

“Are you going to share?” he teased.

She bit her lip gently, and he felt his heart thump in his chest. She was utterly adorable, more content and excited than he had ever seen her, and he had spent many years _seeing_ her.

“Do not laugh,” she narrowed her eyes as she spoke, “but for a boy, I like Samuel or Elijah.”

He nodded dramatically, then furrowed his brows together in thought. He turned to her with a confused expression. “I like Samuel,” he said with genuine surprise. “Sam DiNozzo. It could work.”

She shook her head with a laugh, “I take it you expected my choices to be less agreeable?”

“Look, I’m saying I like it. That’s all, Zee-vah. What else you got? What are we naming our little girl?” His Cheshire grin gave him away, and she bumped his shoulder with her own. “Ok, so maybe I’m hoping for a girl. Is that so surprising?”

“Maybe,” she squeezed his hand tighter, “but may not.”

“So? Are you going to keep me in suspense?”

“Norah,” her quiet reverence brought levity to the moment. “She would be our light.”

He stopped abruptly, letting go of her hand only to clasp his arm tightly around her waist and pull her in for a tight hug. She wrapped one arm around his shoulder, gripping his back as she melted into him. He enveloped her in his embrace, burying his face into her neck. They stood there, holding each other, breathing in deep the other’s anxieties and hesitance.

“We’re really doing this,” he whispered onto her skin, and she nodded her head against his cheek in reply.

“I’m scared, Ziva.” His grip tightened on her, as she started to rub slow circles onto his back.

“So am I, Tony. But we will do what we have always done. We will find a way. And we will find that way together. Partners. Family.”

She turned to press her lips to his cheek, then his jaw, and rubbed the tip of her nose to his. He breathed out a quick, heavy breath as he rested his forehead against hers with a light clunk. His eyes had started to redden, but she whispered her love for him against his lips before kissing him in that gentle, needy way he craved. She indulged him for several long moments, before pulling apart with a final soft press of her lips to his.

“Ok,” he said firmly, and she wrapped her arms around him tightly once more. “Light for the dark, we could use that I think.”


	15. Octobers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Established relationship, future!fic

“We are not even at eight weeks yet,” she chides.

“So? What’s your point?” He’s frowning at her over his ice cream, one eyebrow quirked in her direction.

“My point, _Tony_ , is that you do not need to be carrying my purse. I am perfectly capable.” She holds out her free hand, reaching for the bag and grabbing it roughly from his grip.

“I know you’re _capable_. Is this what it’s going to be like the whole time? Me trying to help you and you refusing?” He turns to face her, what started as good-natured ribbing morphing into a more serious line of questioning. “You’re going to have to let me, sometimes.” His voice is gentle, but firm.

They’ve stopped moving, pausing in the middle of the sidewalk to face one another. The hand she has looped through his arm tightens around his bicep, but she’s looking at the ground between them. A bright red leaf blows over the toe of her boot, a stark contrast to the muted brown and white concrete. She watches the leaf dance across the pavement as she gathers her thoughts. He’s right, she knows this. Even though they’ve been married for two years and partners for more than a decade, she still struggles to relinquish control.  With a heavy sigh, she regards him.

“I know, Tony. It is not,” she pauses, her eyes meeting his. She can read the question in his mind, _can we do this?_ “It is not easy for me to rely on others.”

He opens his mouth, but she continues before he can start, “but I rely on you. I will make an effort to allow you to help me. And we,” she leans over to press a kiss to his jawline, “can do this.”

His eyes are wide and hopeful, surprised by her resolute affirmation. Bringing his hand to where hers rests on his harm, he grabs for her fingers and holds tight. For the first time this afternoon, he notices her brightly colored polish.

“Am I missing something? Do you usually paint your nails?” He lifts her hand to examine it, rubbing her knuckles with the pad of his thumb.

“Not usually, no. But Grace was insistent, and you know I can never deny her.” Ziva had spent the afternoon watching the McMini as she did on most Sundays, and he knows all too well the charms of a certain four year old with big brown eyes and an even bigger vocabulary. The relationship she has with Grace is special to her, to both of them. Ziva has been enamored with her since their first visit to Delilah and McGee in the hospital after her birth. And Grace returns that affection in spades. It’s a beautiful thing to witness, and Tony is grateful. Watching Ziva’s relationship with Grace develop over the past few years has given him so much hope for starting their own family. A hope he had confirmed today at the obstetrician’s’ office when a grainy video and fluttery whooshing had him in tears.

“You are going to be a great mom, Ziva.” His voice cracks just a little, but he tries to pull back the emotion as to not overwhelm her. But she just smiles, that infamous Mona Lisa grin reaching her eyes. She clasps his hand tighter as she leans forward, pressing her lips to his in a warm, tender kiss.

“Blech!” Her face scrunches as she pulls away, tongue darting out to lick her lips quickly.

“What?” he questions, more than slightly affronted.

“I will never understand Americans and their love for all things pumpkin.” She nods her head toward his ice cream, “I know that it is October, which apparently is synonymous with pumpkin. Pumpkin coffee. Pumpkin candles. Now, pumpkin ice cream! But ugh. Hideous.”

He can’t help his barking laugh at her anti-pumpkin tirade. He releases her hand only to grab her waist and pull her close, kissing the disgusted look off her face as he smiles into her lips.


	16. It Is What It Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in S12, can be read in canon - warning mature themes

Tel Aviv is unseasonably cool. She pulls the blanket higher around her shoulders, setting her tea cup on the railing’s edge as she looks out over the city. She spends most nights on this balcony curled in a chair, listening to the sounds of the streets below.

It’s been a year to the day, and she allows her tears to come. Covering her mouth with her hand, she tries to hold herself together. She carries the regret of her decision, knowing there are some choices that have to be seen through. But it doesn’t mean anything has changed.

She closes her eyes and whispers his name into the darkness, shivering against the cold.

\-----

No one mentions it, but he can feel it hang in the air like a shroud over their collective consciousness. Sadness, sorrow even with a faint wisp of anger and belied confusion. He’s aware of the eyes on him, those looks of concern nestled deep in furrowed brows and half-turned smiles.

He tries to ignore the weighted feeling in his chest, concentrating steadily on taking even breaths. The day crawls slowly, his pressured breathing and this growing ache taking residence under his ribcage has drawn his focus.

He types reports.

He drinks coffee.

He answers when called.

The sound of her voice pulls at the ache, stretching against his ribs hard enough to crack bone. The short hairs along the nape of his neck rise as warmth spikes through his spine, the same heat pooling low in his belly.

_He nips at the delicate skin of the inside of her wrist, their fingers tightly entwined. She smells of lavender and spice. Dragging his lips along her skin from wrist to elbow, he tugs her gently from the bed and into his lap. She’s warm, so warm; and those harsh lines of her body are soft and pliable under his touch, as if she were clay. Rich and golden, molding herself to fit until he’s not sure where he stops and she begins._

He blinks hard. Once.

_Her knuckles are white as she grips the sheets, his mouth pressing onto her hip bone breathing “I love you” against her skin._

_The moan escaping her lips when he sucks on the skin high inside her thigh causes him to chuckle. She releases her grip on the sheets to reach down a hand and grab a fistful of his hair with a tug. When their eyes meet, the heat of her gaze stirs in him something primal. But it’s her smile, the brightest he can remember seeing, that shatters him. He’s crawling over her body before she realizes, wrapping his arms around her and holding tight._

Three times.

_With her face pressed into his neck, nose rubbing against the stubble under his jaw, she sighs deeply. Her hands are tracing mindless patterns along his back and there is nothing, nothing that compares to her._

“Tony? Hell-o?” The movement vaguely registers, his mind still half a world away.

“Earth to DiNozzo? Come in, DiNozzo?” Several seconds pass before he’s hurtled back to the present, grimacing at the blonde in the desk across from him. She’s waving her arms above her head, a file in one hand, and a comically quizzical look etching her features.

“You can have the file now,” she says slowly, carefully enunciating. Reaching out the hand holding the folder, she raises her eyebrows in question.

Recovering quickly, he leaves his chair and crosses to her desk. He grabs for the file, but she holds on tight. “Are you ok? You look like you’ve seen a ghost?” Her concern is genuine, but he can’t help the dismissive snort.

“Get back to work, Bishop. I’m fine.” Wincing at the shortness of his reply, he turns back and holds up the file. “Thanks.” She shrugs both shoulders, but looks to her computer without another word.

Back at his desk, he struggles to read through the redacted pages of the file, unable to shake the vivid memory as the ache returns to his chest. Briefly glancing around the bullpen to be sure he’s not watched, he opens his top desk drawer.

He stares at the pendant as the hopelessness of longing causes tears to prick at the back of his eyelids. Pushing the drawer closed, he leans back in his chair and takes a deep breath, squaring the muscles in his jaw.

_Nothing’s changed._


	17. Adventures in Potty-Training

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Established tiva, future!fic, kid!fic

He hangs his coat in the closet, gun and badge in the safe, keys on the hook near the closet door. The same routine each night, although he is usually home in time to be greeted at the door by his daughter running head first into his legs. Tonight, the house is quiet. The only light is coming from the open door of the bathroom down the hall. He heads toward the light, and the small voice he can hear as he makes his way past the stairs.

He finds his wife standing in the shadow of the hall, just before the bathroom. She turns at his approach, his ever watchful ninja. She smiles at him with amused eyes as her finger comes up to silence him. “Just peek in before you say anything,” she says in a whisper. He gives her a wayward smile before stepping around her toward the opening to the bathroom.

He spies his daughter, sitting on the toilet with a book in hand, reciting the story she’s surely memorized. Her hair is a curly mess, and the remnants of tonight’s dinner are stuck to her shirt. His grin stretches from ear to ear, as he pulls back to stand in front of his wife.

“Nugget on a mission?” he says with an amused tone. His wife nods conspiratorially as she pushes off the wall in his direction. 

She steps forward to rest her head on her husband’s chest. His arms come up to wrap around her, one hand rubbing circles on her back. She feels the familiar thrill run through her at her husband’s touch, and encircles her arms around his waist tightly.

“Potty training has been…” She starts, then stops in a hushed tone that queues him into the struggle her days have been recently.

“Difficult?” he offers, his voice sincere and understanding.

She snorts lightly as she rubs her cheek against his chest. “To say the least.”

He hadn’t planned for this moment to turn serious. The time spent as her partner, husband, and father of her child have given him a unique understanding of how her emotions morph, how happiness and contentment can give way so quickly to self-doubt. He continues to rub her back slowly, trying as always to be her anchor.

She whispers quietly, as her grip tightens around him, “I had not anticipated the difficulty. The challenges of parenting are sometimes greater than I had expected. I have read the books, tried the techniques, and still find that I question myself constantly.”  
  
“I’m not sure that will ever go away, Ziva.” He feels her tense against him, but he only holds her tighter. “I feel the same,” he whispers into her hair. “I question myself, too. But we’re doing OK. She’s healthy and happy. So, she’s a little behind on the _potties-are-your-friend_ thing. She’ll get it.”

She pulls back slightly to press a kiss to his jaw. He presses a kiss to her temple, taking in a deep breath before looking down at her. He finds her dark brown eyes glassy and her face open and warm. “There is so great a power in being a parent, Tony. I cannot help but wonder, especially in these small moments, how a mother or father could ever choose to abuse it. To love her is the greatest privilege you or I have ever been given. But to be loved by her is…” She stops, searching his now glassy eyes for the word to describe what is indescribable.  
  
“Awe-inspiring,” he offers in a hushed, reverent tone. She smiles as he brings a hand up to cup her face, thumb brushing the tears that threaten to fall from just under her eye. He leans down and presses a kiss to her lips, loving and kind.

A delighted squeal of “Ima! Come ‘ere!” breaks through their quiet reverie. The two burst into laughter, turning into each other’s arms for a tight, celebratory hug before heading into the bathroom to praise their daughter’s efforts.


	18. Bury Your Dead (For Jae)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the prompt: "Hey, I'm with you okay? Always."

The van was rolling to a stop when the front passenger side tire bumped the curb, jostling her head from his shoulder and bringing her mind clearly to alertness. She couldn’t remember falling asleep, but the makeshift hospital was at least a half hour ride from CATAM. The flight from Norfolk to Bogota included a stop to unload cargo at Lackland, and what was once a common mode of transportation for the former Kidon-operative is now serving to highlight the twinge in her lower spine and heavy exhaustion pushing on her shoulders. This is the last place she had envisioned spending her 35th birthday. But when an urgent call comes through MTAC from a covert MI-5 operative requesting her immediate presence, there is simply no option.

“You ready?” His voice is rough from travel and lack of sleep, but it sounds of home and safety and is exactly what she needs to steel her resolve.

With a deep breath in, she nods once. Turning to reach for the door handle, she feels him slide across the seat toward her. They hadn’t talked about this – whether he would accompany her inside or wait in the van. But his jaw is fixed in that _whatever argument you think you’re going to make right now, just shut it down_ way he has and her brow furrows in resignation.  She throws the door open with a lurch and is immediately assaulted by the wet, Colombian heat.

“Agent David, if you please?” the hospital’s director, a foreign aid worker with a heavy French accent ushers her toward the door. Following the woman, she stops just shy of the threshold, the acrid smell of disease and dying assaulting her senses.

“Hey, I’m with you, okay?” His breath is close to her ear, as he whispers softly, just for her. “Always.”

They’re lead through a large room littered with cots and patients in various states of sickness. As advised, both raise their masks, avert their eyes, and stay focused on the closed door that’s come in to view. A large “X” is painted across the center, black tagged for the dead.

She turns to him then, a hand pressed to his chest as a silent conversation passes.

_I must go alone._

_No, let me stay with you._

_I need you to wait here._

_Please, Ziva._

_Allow me this, Tony. I owe her this._

“Ok.” He rubs a hand across her upper arm, squeezing her bicep.

She’s shown to a table near the farthest wall, stepping past a line of fabric wrapped bodies awaiting burial. When the director pulls back the sheet, her eyes divert quickly. Stilling herself, she turns her gaze back to the face of her friend, ashen and hardly recognizable.

“Monique Lisson,” she chokes, clearing her throat before finishing. “She was on a humanitarian mission with a UN peacekeeping task force. She is a British citizen, and Agent DiNozzo and I are here on assignment to see to the safe return of her body. We will arrange transport to CATAM within the hour.”

When the call had come through MTAC the day prior, asking for confirmation of death and posthumous extraction, Ziva had not allowed herself even a moment of grief. Despite the insistence of her logical mind, hope had taken hold of her heart that maybe - _just maybe -_ the intel was wrong.

“We have confirmation,” was her only reply as she exited the room. He nodded once, continuing to play his role. There was danger of an international incident if anyone were to gain wind of an interagency mission so deep cover not even Gibbs was granted access to the nature of the target or _targets_. Tony and Ziva had flown in blind, knowing their plan was for recovery alive or dead.

The ride back to the base was silent. Tony conversed with the Corporal assigned to their team to transport the body from the hospital, and they were wheels up and headed for Cranwell not two hours later.

As she stared at the casket, a deep sadness gripped her. Several years had passed since their last meeting, and she had to blink away hard the image of a matching wooden box. One meant for her.

Turning to her right as best she could while strapped in the freighter’s harness, she buried her face against his neck. Crying softly, she allowed herself to grieve for her beautiful friend and to offer her guilt for choosing life.


	19. Wrong Number

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> based on the prompt/post: 
> 
> Otp thought of the day:
> 
> remember tony and ziva’s chat on skype  
> When she said that she was thinking about him  
> Wonder how often she does these days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Mikey

Just once.

She sends the occasional postcard to Duckie or Abby, even Tim. But for Tony, radio silence. He gets it. He get _her_ , knowing if the time were right or if she needed him - in the life or death sense at least - she’d reach out. Doesn’t make it hurt any less. Doesn’t make him less angry. But at least he knows.

Ziva’s journey has brought her to Hollywood, land of the rich and famous. She’s taken a selfie in front of Mann’s Chinese Theater ( _one for the mantel_ , she thinks), placed her feet next to Marilyn’s footprints on the Walk of Fame, and even rode a double-decker bus for a “star tour” as the hotel concierge recommended.

It’s not until she’s in her room later that evening, exhausted from the sun and heat; but also this constant niggling thought she’s tried to push away all day. He should be here with you.

It’s not the first time Ziva has thought about Tony. If she’s being honest with herself, he’s always there - in her thoughts, her heart. As time has gone on, her journey become more clear, those thoughts of him have turned from painful memories to encouragement and pride. Tony would be proud of her. She knows this because she knows _him_.

Which is why she doesn’t think twice about powering up her laptop and for the first time in almost two years, searching his name in the contacts.

It’s almost 10 eastern time and a weeknight so the chances he’s home are likely. Almost a minute passes without an answer, and she’d be lying to herself if she didn’t admit how her heart sank just a little.

But then his face is filling the screen, almost exactly as she remembered. His eyes are a bit wild, and it takes her a few seconds to realize he isn’t wearing a shirt.

“Ziva?” His voice is a full octave higher, almost comedic in it’s disbelief and she can’t help her smile.

They stare at each other for a long minute, as Tony’s face relaxes and he breathes out her name, a whisper of familiar intimacy across distance and time.

“Hello, Tony.” She’s all soft brown eyes and Mona Lisa smile and he cannot help himself. Two years, a dark tarmac, and the numbness in between is nothing now. He’s back in Haifa, wrapped around her and a tangle of sheets, his lips making declarations for him into her skin as his hands map the planes of her body. He’s standing in front of her desk in the bullpen, using the remote to turn on Tali’s favorite opera, seeing in her eyes all the things neither of them can say just then. He’s tied to a metal chair with lungs full of dust and a heart full of vengeance when the bag is pulled from over her head and he swears he stops breathing.

Then he hears the shower turn off, and he’s back to his apartment on a random Tuesday night answering a skype call from the woman who was his world but now isn’t his anything.

He hangs his head on a sigh because of course, this is how this would go. He’d by lying to himself if he couldn’t admit imagining what she would look like, what he would say, how they would fix this when she finally reached out.

It was never this.

“Ziva,” he looks over his shoulder, staring at something she can’t see from the screen. When he turns back to face her, his mouth a tight line.

“It’s not a good time.”

Tony watches her mouth drop open slightly as his rejection registers, but she quickly gets a reign on those feelings in a way only she can.

“Of course. I understand.” There’s a flash of anger coursing through him because her words feel like a permission he didn’t ask for, but quickly subsides as the sadness clouds her features.

“Another time, perhaps?” The words are hollow, and leave a bad taste in her mouth. She does understand, but the sudden weighted feeling in her chest is a traitorous reminder of what it meant to hope.

He says her name again, and she forces a smile.

“Take care of yourself, okay?” She knows he’s sincere, can read it in the lines of his face.

There’s a longing there too, but he’s not sure how to say what he needs to before the door behind him opens. He can’t say I miss you or I need you or come home because those words are as unfair as they are true.

“Goodbye, Tony.” She signs off before he has the chance.

The door to the bathroom opens, and he closes the laptop quickly.

“Were you talking to someone?” The frown on Zoe’s face will only deepen with the truth, and he’s just too tired for that tonight.

“Wrong number.” He lies. _Wrong answer_ , he thinks.


End file.
